


Smell the Roses

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:24:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Summer of Sherlock fest on the Sherlockmas community.  Sherlock has a keen sense of smell and summertime heat just makes it worse...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smell the Roses

**Author's Note:**

> S/J established, written for Summer of Sherlock prompt.

By his second summer with Sherlock, John was prepared. At the first sign that the warm weather was not going to let up anytime soon, he would begin laying in supplies: filters for the industrial-strength air purifier, unscented soaps and lotions, unscented laundry detergent, grooming supplies meant for ultra-sensitive skin and having virtually no smell. And, always, fresh flowers. The types of flowers allowed were very strictly proscribed, a list ranging from best to ‘if I even suspect you looked at a lily, I will flay your flesh from your bones and wear you like a coat’. John had laughed at that, but under Sherlock’s intense glare, the sound had faded to an uneasy chuckle and John had made sure to avoid any shops with lilies as a prominent display item.

By the time July rolled around, Sherlock was miserable. London was like a giant heat sink, pulling in the sun’s rays and using it to brew a miasma of smells that only the truly miserable could appreciate. “Feh. It stinks of rat piss and dead skin!”

Lestrade made a moue of disgust. “I don’t even want to know how you know what dead skin smells like, Sherlock.”

John simply sighed and brandished a clean handkerchief at Sherlock. The detective took a deep breath through it and visibly relaxed. Keeping it pressed against his mouth and nose, he proceeded to pick apart the crime scene, rat piss and all. John shrugged at Donovan’s look of askance. “He’s got a sensitive nose,” was his only explanation.

A week later, Sherlock tossed the handkerchief aside when John offered it to him. “It’s useless. I’ve adapted.” He spat the words as if they tasted foul. “This entire alley smells of rancid grease and...and...”

“Piss?” Anderson offered in a rare fit of generosity of spirit where Sherlock was concerned. “Offal? Blood?”

“Your deodorant,” Sherlock growled. “John!”

John was ready. He held out the small vial of oils, specially selected and blended by Sherlock himself. A deep whiff and the bottle was pressed back into his hand. “Alright, then?”

“Much,” Sherlock sighed, and turned to Lestrade with a feline smile and sharp words spilling from his lips.

The oil blend worked until mid-August. “This is infuriating,” Sherlock howled into his shirtsleeve.

John rubbed soothing circles on Sherlock’s back and sighed. “It’s not as bad as all that,” he said, even though he knew it to be a lie, at least for his lover. While the abandoned house did reek of things best left unsaid and unthought, the urge to gag felt by most of the coppers and John himself was nothing compared to the almost insatiable need to be physically ill that Sherlock felt after a whiff of the sitting room. “Here, come on then,” he urged softly, pulling the trembling, rigid Sherlock into an awkward embrace, pushing the detective’s head down so that he could smell the red rose stuck in John’s lapel. A few deep breaths and the trembling abated. Almost a minute passed before Sherlock exhaled shakily, rose to his full height and, in a rush of breath, told Dimmock that his murderer hadn’t made it far--the body was obviously stuck in the chimney after he failed to escape from the scene.

Only four days later,the heatwave struck. John was thankful no cases were on--Sherlock couldn’t stand the smells of Baker Street, let alone London in general. He sprawled on his bed in nothing but a vest and his briefs, listening to Sherlock torture the violin and force himself to sneeze. He dozed, despite the noise and heat, dreaming of a desert in the middle of Regent’s Park and King George riding past in a tank, waving and throwing Jaffa Cakes. When His Highness spoke, it was with Sherlock’s voice. “Move your arm.” John frowned at that. He almost asked why, but the world jolted and rolled and he awakened to find all six feet and one half inch of a consulting detective pressed against him. “I can’t sleep,” he murmured.

“I could.” He tried not to sound grumpy and failed.

“I need you armpit.”

“What? Sherlock! No!” But it was too late. Sherlock buried his nose against John’s side, right under his arm, and inhaled deeply, his breath tickling John no end. “There’s no way I can smell better than whatever has you riled up!”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock mumbled from beneath his arm. “Essence of John. It helps me think, clears the fetid stench of London on broil from my nose and is generally pleasing besides.”

John closed his eyes and wondered if he imagined the tiny lick he felt just at the edge of his armpit. “Fine. But I’m not letting you do this at crime scenes.”


End file.
